


Rafael Barba Is Not A Victim

by p_for_papaya (houseofaffliction)



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Gaslighting, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Rafael Barba Is Not a Victim, Rating May Change, Swearing, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofaffliction/pseuds/p_for_papaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hospital room's door swings open silently and Carisi is suddenly, violently awake, no sign of his previous exhaustion lingering anywhere close because the man in the hospital room, the unidentifiable Hispanic male that is apparently a victim of long-term physical abuse and possible rape is none other than ADA Rafael Barba. He feels a vague nausea rise in his stomach and barely catches the frame of the door as the room spins.</p>
<p>He's definitely not going to be sleeping for at least another thirty hours, if not more.</p>
<p>"Fuck."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rafael Barba Is Not A Victim

**Author's Note:**

> TW: mentions of serious physical, emotional, mental, and verbal abuse. Mentions of injuries sustained due to abuse. Character denies abuse occurred. Character denies abuse affected them. Character denies being a victim. Warnings may change.

The  _tap tap tap_  of his shoes echoes in the empty hallway. He reaches up absentmindedly and tugs at his tie. It's tight, reminds him too much of hands closing around his airway, choking him until his vision fades.

The light hurts his eyes. The floor is too white, too reflective and, though it is night, the hall lights are strong enough that he's sure there tiny needles stab at his corneas.

He feels drunk. He knows he's not, knows he been  _drugged_ , but his heart, his  _pride_ , stubbornly refuses to believe that he's let himself fall so far. He works with the Special Victims Unit, for god's sake; he should know better! 

He hazily remembers months of sharp words, heavy fists, and he stumbles over his own feet, suddenly sick to his stomach and filled with regret. How many times had he slipped on his suits like they were coats of armor? How many times had he hidden deep purple bruises under layers of polyester shirts and silk ties? How many times had he made excuses about tripping, slipping,  _nicking himself with a razor?_ That was one of his more impressive saves, he's not even going to lie. 

The floor sways beneath his feet like a ship at sea, and if he wasn't feeling quite so sick he might like it, might be soothed by the motion. As it stands, the movement makes him trip, and he falls to his knees, throwing one hand out in front of him to keep from bowling right over.

He has enough time to wonder, vaguely, where he is and then everything goes black. 

 

* * *

 

Sonny Carisi is two papers from a degree at Fordham Law, several thousand dollars in debt, and thirty-seven hours past the end of what was supposed to be an eight-hour shift, and he  _does not have time for this right now_. They've just gotten a confession after a real brutal case involving several kids, hours of chasing the suspect around the city, and far too much death to be palatable. He's tired, he's underpaid, and, god help him, he loves his job. 

That last bit is the only reason why he's inching through traffic to the hospital to take a statement instead of packing up his apartment and moving to Aruba. He blinks sleep out of his eyes and leans on the horn, inching the gas pedal closer and closer to the floor as he flies through the city. It might be the middle of the night, but there are taxis and pedestrians and hordes of overworked suckers like himself out burning the midnight oil. 

Luckily, the parking lot of the hospital is relatively calm. He scores valet parking by flashing his badge and reminds himself to bring that up in confession this weekend - it's probably a sin somehow, he's just too tired to figure out why. 

The nurse is brunette, all dark skin and bright smiles and too young to be jaded by the job. Any other day, he'd flirt and charm her into a little more information on the victim he's been called to see. Today, he just gestures for her to show him the way. 

She fills him in, anyway. Apparently the victim is male, late thirties to mid-forties, Hispanic, and unconscious. No ID and no distinctive features beyond some severe bruising, cracked ribs, and an impressive array of scars have made it nearly impossible to identify him. In the elevator, Carisi asks why he was called - this sounds like a standard mugging, after all. 

Not a mugging, the nurse says. Blood tests revealed he'd been dosed with an unfortunately popular new date-rape drug, and x-rays showed he'd suffered months, if not years, of physical abuse. 

Carisi jots this all down in his little notebook as they approach the door to the man's room. He wonders for a moment if this new victim means that he won't be sleeping for an  _additional_ thirty-something hours and immediately chastises himself for the thought. Obviously the man has been through some sort of trauma, and it's Carisi's job to help him. 

The hospital room's door swings open silently and Carisi is suddenly, violently awake, no sign of his previous exhaustion lingering anywhere close because the man in the hospital room, the unidentifiable Hispanic male that is apparently a victim of long-term physical abuse and possible rape is none other than ADA Rafael Barba. He feels a vague nausea rise in his stomach and catches the frame of the door as the room spins. He's definitely not going to be sleeping for  _at least_ another thirty hours, if not more. 

"Fuck."

 


End file.
